


I See The Moon, And The Moon Sees Me

by TheOtherMaddHatter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Beauty and The Beast Syndrome, Curious Sherlock, Disapproving Older Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feral Behavior, Gen, M/M, Pack Bonding, Paperwork, Research Teams, Research and Study, Salvation, War, War Crimes, War wounds, Werewolf Packs, Werewolves, genetic mutations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherMaddHatter/pseuds/TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a Full Moon, that’s for sure, Sherlock remembers thinking.  And yet, here he was, running around the streets of London in pursuit of an escaped Feral Werewolf without back-up.  Despite what those blathering idiots at Mycroft’s office think, Werewolves don’t need a Full Moon to shift form, and they certain didn’t need permission to go off on their own.  This wolf in particular.   </p>
<p>No, Sherlock thinks grumpily, he doesn’t.</p>
<p>And that doesn’t even begin to cover the fact that Sherlock has no idea who the Werewolf is, or what it is that he wants outside the recovery facility in the Heart of London.  Now it’s a race against time to find him and to figure out what he wants, before it’s too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Howl

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm back with a brand new AU this time around guys! It's taken be a while to get back into the swing of writing and to get my feet under me again, but this one started writing itself! As I'm sure you've noticed, this AU is a Werewolf Universe, and is more of a genetic mutation strain than a supernatural one, although most stories are bound in fact. So just keep that in mind. Just because it is legend doesn't mean I haven't taken it into consideration when I write my Werewolves.
> 
> This one, just like all my writing, is going to be slow going because I'm getting ready to graduate and I'm working and doing a hundred million things all at once. But I'm finally off for break, so I'm hoping to get in some writing while I'm home.
> 
> I'm still working on the one-shot sequel to my other fic "Glimpse of Gold" and it will be up hopefully pretty soon. The ending just needs some work and structure put into it. I'm also editing and revising the main story as well, because someone was really kind and came along me to beta. 
> 
> Like always, if you see any errors, please let me know so that I can correct them! I do not own anything from Sherlock. This is a work of pure fiction and is intended for entertainment purposes.

“And this is why I’ve brought you down here, Sherlock.” 

 

Mycroft was pompous and full of himself, always over stepping his bounds and sticking his big nose into things that were none of his business.  Putting his fingers into all manner of pies, so to speak, almost always including every venture Sherlock ever had.  Especially now that Sherlock had basically out-maneuvered the Government’s own Anti-Werewolf Task Force and Research Division, and had started up his own private study outside of the more respectable institutions.  Mycroft was infuriating, simply put, but that didn’t keep him from being good at what he did, whatever it was that he actually did do.  Even Sherlock had to admit that, although it was grudgingly and silent, kept to his inner most thoughts.  Their childhood grudge wouldn’t keep all of their once-strong brotherly affection at bay, no matter how much Sherlock wished it did.

 

And Sherlock, for all his fuss and tantrums, still loved his brother in a way that not many outside of the Holmes Family could or would ever be able to really understand.  It was for this brotherly connection, a long suffering things, that he’d come down here when he at, at Mycroft’s request no less.  He often just shrugged the other demands or inquiries off as more of Mycroft’s hot air, but sometimes, just sometimes there came one that he couldn’t ignore.  This was one of those rare cases, and Sherlock -despite the time and place- had obliged. 

 

The room before them both was cast in shadows, the automatic timer on the artificial lighting system in all the rooms dimming to simulate night time for the occupants within.  This particular space was darker than any of the others, and from the small flickers of light coming from the floor, Sherlock would hazard to say it was due to several broken bulbs from the safety lights overhead.  This room had several other noticeable signs of distress from the occupant, but he shrugged them off.  Because this wasn’t really a room, per say, or even an enclosed area.  It was more of a cage really, a series of cells, where unruly members of Her Majesty’s Lycanthropic Division or Lineage were housed for the duration of their loss of control or rehabilitation.  It was a treatment facility. 

 

Most of those housed within these walls were voluntarily there for their stay, feeling the need to be removed from society for a while.  They would come for miles around to London’s finest sanctuary-retreat in order to give themselves needed solitude or isolation, a break from all the close urban structures.  It helped promote good mental health in the Werewolf community, along with a sense of safety for both sides of their lives.  But not all of the residents in **this** particular facility were here by choice.  Some of the others in separate buildings and wings here were serving prison sentences or other legal orderings, since normal prisons or facilities do not always have the means with which to deal with a Werewolf.  They were kept far from the general public or the other willing participants in the government funded program, and mostly kept in separate compounds all together.  Or according to offense, sentencing, or mental stability. 

 

And then there were compounds hidden throughout all of Great Britain designed specifically for military application or use, housed deep below the other facilities.  Out of sight of the public’s ever watchful eye, both for the militarized Packs safety and for healthcare or treatment.  It was in one of these carefully guarded facilities that Sherlock found himself in now, accompanied by his brother.  Though Mycroft hadn’t said much about what it was they were both doing here (since Sherlock knew Mycroft oversaw quite a bit, but rarely went out on assignment himself), he had a feeling that it had something to do with the rather reclusive occupant of the cell before them.  And judging by the way the cell is empty on both sides of other occupants for quite a few rooms, Sherlock would say that the werewolf inside was not a particularly nice one.  Or sane. 

 

“You’ve brought me to see one of your little Military Pets, Mycroft?  These are the military facilities.”  Sherlock couldn’t help the sneer from escaping through his lips, his nostrils flaring as he almost spat the words.  “I thought you lot had a handle on these sorts of things?  It is what you do, Mycroft.” 

 

Mycroft only gave a silent sigh, his shoulders barely moving in an almost weary way before they set again.  His brother didn’t even bother to respond to him, just stepped forwards on the floor, closer to a rather crudely drawn, florescent orange stripe painted on the floor.  He didn’t not step on it, or more than a few inches near it, and he seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to do the same.  Well, Sherlock wasn’t going to observe some stupid safety line, especially not when he’d come all the way down here at arse o’clock in the morning at Mycroft’s request.  He wouldn’t be able to see the wolf from that distance anyways, and if he was going to help -which is what Sherlock could only assume Mycroft wanted from him- then he was going to have to get much closer than that.  Without another thought on the matter, Sherlock took two long strides and completely bypassed the line. 

 

No sooner had he done so than the entire atmosphere in the darkened hallway changed, tension building at an almost instant rate, heavy power hanging tangent in the air.  Sherlock didn’t get long to examine the feeling before something on the other side of the glass was flying at him from out of the darkness, the heavy weight and much larger body striking the shatter-proof plexiglass with so much force that it shook in its setting.  Sherlock himself flinched backwards, his nature reacting to that of the much larger, unseen predator despite his best efforts not to, but he quickly tried to regain his composure and bodily control.  It would serve him ill to react so poorly in the face of one of Nature’s most beautifully crafted genetic mutations.  Because it was beautiful.  Oh so very, very beautiful.  Even in such a reduced state. 

 

Glancing back at his brother was an incredibly bold move, even when the very Feral Werewolf was safely behind the plexiglass, and Sherlock knew it.  It showed a type of weakness that Werewolves seemed to pick up on instinctively, the turning of your back on a beast and the baring of your throat to a predator in a mockery display, a signal of insolence or indifference to their status.  It infuriated Werewolves.  And of course Sherlock knew this, it was his life’s work to know this sort of thing.  He’d been making larger leaps in the Lycanthropic Field than anyone else in the country, and was quickly becoming a contender for one of the brightest minds in the entire field worldwide.  Sherlock had turned his passion for observation and lengthy studies into a tool, and with it had helped to build a base for the quickly blooming Lycanthropic Mutation and those effected by it, despite how it was contracted or displayed. 

 

Mycroft had approved of his brother’s choices only after Sherlock had made so much progress in his studies that it was able to be productively used, and had quickly jumped on the previous untapped resource in the name of Her Majesty’s Government.  It was quickly incorporated seamlessly into everyday life, as well as many other applicable fields, including the military. Instead of treating the outbreak as a contagion or something equally horrifying, the UN had used to quickly gathered research from various sources to their advantage, and thus prevented a eugenics war campaign on Lycanthropy.  That had been almost ten years ago now, but since then, society as a whole has adapted to it with surprising ease.  Even Sherlock’s contemporaries had been surprised with the amount of acceptance that the “disease” had been treated with.  And despite the few spatters of intolerance groups or other types of purists located throughout the world, it had gone over with little more than a few minor hitches. 

 

Now, Lycanthropy was treated just like any other sort of everyday occurrence or physical aspect that one was likely to come across in their day to day lives.  Despite the fact that most Lycanthropes were almost a completely different species from most Humans, it was rarely treated any differently from the norm.  A Fast Evolution, geneticists had called it, but Sherlock knew the ins-and-outs of basic Lycanthropic Biology better than a majority of them.  Their basic instincts and behavior were more closely related to wolves if they were born with the mutation naturally already in their system from conception, and exhibited characteristics more strongly during certain parts of the month in relation to the moon’s natural cycle.  The horror movies and most of pop culture were wrong, of course, they weren’t forced to shift at the Full Moon, but they often did because they were more in tune with their surroundings and pack at this point in the lunar cycle.  Their senses and basic instincts all go into overdrive during the week leading up to the three-day period of the Full Moon.  It is during this three day time frame that an Alpha -and only an Alpha- can bite and change humans via the transmitted virus mutation, in order to induct them into their packs.  The humans, according to law, must be completely willing and of knowing consent of all aspects of the change. 

 

If a Werewolf weren’t born, but bitten and turned, their DNA would go through a simpler form of initial mutation which would happen rapidly at the beginning before slowing down over the following months before the change was complete.  Bitten wolves were usually smaller than born wolves in shifted size, and tended to be very sick and weak during the first year or two of the initial bite. They were kept in seclusion for this period in order to fully recover, learn restraint, control, and to familiarize themselves with their new Pack’s life styles.  It was a very private time, and when the initial discovery of the Lycanthropy Mutation was made, these were the wolves targeted by scared and outraged humans. It is now spent outside of large metropolitan or urbanized areas, away from large gatherings of humans and other potentially overwhelming stimuli, and is highly privatized within the singular Pack.  Sherlock had never witnessed a Turning for himself, but from gathered data and interviews, he knows that there are rarely words to explain just what occurs during that first initial year.  A “sight to see” in order to be understood. 

 

There were answers he still didn’t have, and Sherlock’s hunt for them hadn’t waned over the passing years since beginning his lengthy journey into this previously unknown world.  But seeing Mycroft’s mystery Werewolf only lead to more questions than he currently had answers, and the results were a quickly dwindling temper followed by a waning set of spiderweb-thin patience. 

 

“This particular wolf is why you’re here, Sherlock.”  Mycroft’s posh accent was more grating than gratifying at this point, but still Sherlock turned his head slightly to listen over the slightly-muffled roars and snarls from behind the glass.  “I’m asking that you use your skills and Lycanthropic knowledge to aid us in this singular case.” 

 

“Who is he and what has he done to end up here?  Something gruesome, I’d imagine.  Otherwise you wouldn’t have him isolated as such all the way down here.”  Sherlock flashed a quick smirk before turning his full attention back on the being in front of him. It was still raging and clawing for all its worth at the barrier between them, eyes slightly glazed.  “He’s clearly gone Feral, but surely you know this.  Even you would be able to see something that obvious.” 

 

“Quite, Sherlock.  Our concern is not with what he’s done, but with who he is.  I’m afraid the AWTF found him wandering around in the expansive sands of Afghanistan.  He was severely wounded for a Werewolf, and covered in blood.  He’d been using a small cave nearby as a den for quite some time when they found him.”  Mycroft didn’t step any closer to Sherlock, but didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Sherlock wasn’t looking at him while he was explaining.  “There were no tags or other identifying marks left on him, and it seems that somewhere in the desert he lost his sense of self to the wolf.  We need to identify him and notify his next of kin of what’s happened.” 

 

“My god, he’s one of our’s.” He gagged.  “How did someone not notice him missing?”

 

“We’re not sure.”   

 

Sherlock’s breath felt thin and bound in his chest, the rush of knowledge that this was once a member of a Pack deployed to war shooting through him.  There were so very few of those who were willing to go and fight, because no wolf in their right mind would abandon their Pack voluntarily to leave the country and go into a danger zone.  Whole Packs would have to go.  Had gone.  And to have a wolf this far gone mentally would only mean the loss of his entire Pack, nothing else would explain the increasingly Feral behavior.  This was a wolf with no living emotional ties on the entire planet, all of them cruelly severed and torn apart.  An Omega, as they were called within full Packs, a wolf without an anchor or emotional Pack ties.  Some of the most dangerous wolves to ever walk the face of the planet had been Omegas, and had to be quickly dealt with to prevent bloody massacres or rampages across a given area.  They were _dangerous_ in most situations, although not all.  And they were going to have to put this one down, judging on the reaction stepping too close to the cage evoked.  He couldn’t deal with the loss, the severance of his Pack, and was now classified as a danger to himself and others. 

 

“As I’m sure you know, we cannot act without notifying the family first.  We need to figure our who he is or was before we move forward, but none of our technicians can get close enough to get a hair sample for DNA testing.”  Mycroft’s voice didn’t change, but Sherlock could see the slight dimming of his eyes at the mention of the dead Pack.  “It is likely that his next of kin were in the Pack with him.  But surely there is someone out there, another family member, without the mutation or that was not part of the Pack.  Someone we can notify.”

 

“If there is, Mycroft, then I will find them.”  Sherlock said softly, eyes locked on the wolf with a haunted sort of fever.  “I’ll be back later today with the rest of my materials.  I’m going to have to get near him, closer than this.  You’ll have to supply some of the tools, of course, and some more hands for me to work with.” 

 

Mycroft nodded, expecting no less. 

 

“At least four, preferably more.  And I’d like at least one of them to have the mutation.  It will make dealing with the Omega’s increased strength easier and less dangerous for those of us that are not wolves.”  Sherlock turned and swept off down the hallway, Mycroft’s clip stride just behind him, his thoughts and ideas already racing ahead of his physical limitations.  “And unfortunately, I know you’ll have precautions put in place.  Try to hide these as best as you can, new guards at the very least.  So that he’s less on edge than he already is.” 

 

“Of course, Sherlock.  I already planned as much.”  Mycroft stepped around him in order to punch in his security code on the lift, his finger print scanned as quickly as Sherlock could blink.  “Your prints and codes are being put into the system as we speak.  You’ll have access to a team of six, two of which are Lycanthropes.  Hopefully, between you and your team, we can gather the necessary DNA and identify this poor man.” 

 

“Yes, Mycroft.  Hopefully.” 


	2. Little Red Riding Hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag for this story on Tumblr: We See The Moon
> 
> There’s currently nothing in this tag, so it is a safe one for everyone to use. In this tag you can put discussions, questions, discuss plot, and even fanart! (Which Holy Crap guys, there are some of you that drew me fanart, and oh man. Is it ever the best feeling ever to receive fanart!) So if you would like to follow this story or chat with anyone else via this story, please follow the above tag and join the fun! 
> 
> And thank you all so very, very much for the kind words and support!

“No, no, no!  You idiots!” Sherlock shouted across the space, voice bouncing against the metallic lining in the walls and ceiling.  “I told you to put the sedatives over there, with the rest of the medical supplies!  I don’t want anyone mucking this up by filling him full of bullets instead of sedatives if the time comes.”    
  
A muttered chorus of ‘ _Of course, Mr. Holmes..._ ’ and ‘ _There’s another one, great..._ ’ were the only responses he got in return, even though he was probably only meant to hear the first.  But even from where he was standing, half-perched on a crate filled with raw meat, he could see them doing as they were told regardless of the lip.  Well, at least not all of Mycroft’s men were complete idiots.  No, just most of them.  Especially those imbeciles that had been sent earlier today and were confused when they were ordered to stay behind the safety line on the ground in front of the Werewolf’s cage.  When a few of them had gotten too close, the large beast had thrown its whole body at the glass again, making it shudder and shake, and terrifying all three of the men before it.  Sherlock had sent them away in a huff after one of them had explained in a shaking voice that he didn’t know Lycanthropes could shift without the aid of the Full moon.  When the other two had reluctantly agreed, the younger Holmes brother had about lost his very impressive mind.    
  
Now, at least, he was able to find a some-what amiable rhythm in the set up of his soon-to-be makeshift laboratory.  He’d used the large open area at the center of the pod of cells that their mystery Omega currently resided in.  The area was normally a bit of roaming and moving space for the cooped up Werewolves during their stay, a small contained yard almost, but with the rogue being as feral and crazed as it was, no one had dared try to let it out of the enclosure it.  If they let it out, they had to have some way to get it back in.  To contain it.  And as of right now, they were barely even doing that.  It did allow more access and view of the interior pen though, which Sherlock felt worked to his advantage, and there was less of shadowed are inside now that it was being lit from both directions.  He’d at least be able to keep a better eye on it now with the improved lighting.    
  
Soon the other members of the team would arrive, well after most of his equipment and supplies were divided and set up, and they could begin the process of trying to get near enough to the rogue to take samples and run the many tests they’d need.  Sherlock had thought up quite a few of these himself, so that his data would not be contaminated or weakened, but no one needed to know that.  Least of all his support staff.  He was in charge here, not them.    
  
And at the very least, he would be able to figure out this most puzzling -and gruesome- case.    
  
“Alright, someone alert me when the trained wolves arrive.  I’m going to be observing our guest and recording the data.  I don’t want any interruptions until they get here.”  Sherlock turned away from the few straggling set-up team, waving a hand off over his shoulder in an attempt to get them to go away.  “Now shoo!”    
  
The several men and two women scrambled for the door, nearly knocking into one another in their haste to get out of the enclosed space with Sherlock and their very furry friend in the pen.  The door finally gave its last hiss as it sealed up tight, the cameras in the room whirling every once and a while as they rotated positions through out the room.  Sherlock himself hardly paid them any mind, they were annoyances at best, and got to work studying what he could of their subject from behind the line.  No need to get him all worked up for something Sherlock could easily do from an agreed-up safety distance.    
  
Lights were still low and almost flickering inside the caged off room, but it was now mostly flooded with light.  The small cot in the middle of the left wall was over-turned, the mattress, sheets, and singular pillow piled randomly behind the metal frame.  A nest, Sherlock realized, or what would pass for one under these conditions.  It was the basest of instincts for a wolf to make a den, a nest, in order to have a safe haven from the outside world.  Plenty of ration wolves did it too, though theirs usually used bean-bag type bedding and massive body pillows as foundations.  Here there were no such luxuries, and the wolf inside had made due with what he’d been given.  Sherlock nodded, taking the notes down almost lazily as he kept his eyes trained on the internal enclosure.    
  
The wolf itself was curled up in the nest, head glaring at Sherlock from between the springs of the bed frame, eyes warily watching every move made.  They were very dark for a Werewolf, almost black from the dim lighting, but not unheard off.  Some wolves’ eye color would change with their mood or environment, even their diet, and while the dark eyes were rare, they were not anything to be worried about.  The scar running horizontally across the massive muzzle was.    
  
It had to have been one wicked wound, inflicted with something very poisonous to Werewolf physiology in order to scar like that.  Or it was inflicted by an Alpha, Sherlock quickly corrected himself, but rarely did Alpha wounds scar unless they were given by another Pack’s defending Alpha or an overly aggressive Alpha.  Either way, it was hard pressed to do, and Sherlock found himself longing to get a much closer look at the wound.  Preferably up close and personal, though he highly doubted that he would allow him anywhere near the plexiglass, let alone inside the room.  Maybe if he got closer to the glass it would still be alright?  He wasn’t a threat like this, not to a wolf that large, and certainly not alone, but it was all depending on how much of the feral nature was dictated by instincts that were sour.  The wolf would decide anyone was a threat, given that he was currently bound inside what amounted to a prison cell.    
  
Sherlock steeled himself, stood up straight, looked the creature in the eyes, and took one step forward, just over the line.  The Werewolf inside snapped his head to fully give him the star down, but didn’t move to get up, and didn’t fly into a panicked rage.    
  
Progress.    
  
Slowly, Sherlock gave a slight bowing of his head, a nod of sorts, and continued to make his observations.  He -the Werewolf- was on the larger size, based on the normal range he’d established while doing his preliminary research.  If he stood on four legs he’d come almost to Sherlock’s shoulder blades at his highest point, and if he were to stand on two legs he’d tower well above him and the rest of those around him.  Werewolves rarely stood up like humans did, often preferring to hunch down or to walk on all fours like a normal wolf, therefore reducing their overall standing size but nearly doubling their bulk weight, mass, and lowering their center of gravity.  Though Sherlock had never seen this one move much more than flinging himself at the windows, he would hazard a guess and say that this wolf would walk on all fours.    
  
His fur was something unusual though, which only made his eyes and size stand out even more.  Most wolves were dark in coloring, having a frosted or brindled appearance typical of actual wolves, regardless of skin or hair coloring while they were in their human forms.  Larger wolves tended to be darker in coloring, and many of the Alphas Sherlock had seen had all been very dark or almost completely dark brown or black.  There were a few exceptions though, as their should be, and not all of the larger wolves were darker.  The same went for smaller wolves, not all of them were lighter in color or had more pronounced frosting to their fur.  This wolf was definitely one of those exceptions, having a light, sandy tan coloring to him over most of his body.  Patches were lighter and almost off-white near his underbelly, wrists, ankles, and throat, while down the back of his head, neck, shoulders, and spine to his tail had darker colored tips.  His ears were tipped a dark chocolate brown, as was the very end of his tail, and the fur on the tops of his paws was stippled with the same coloring as his back and neck.    
  
At this closer distance, Sherlock could see that there were quite a few other smaller scars and markings that dotted his flanks and limbs, but none as pronounced as the one on his face.  If he were to shift back to a more human form, Sherlock would bet that the man’s body would be littered with the markings, trophies from the many fights he’d seen.  If they were newer or older, he couldn’t tell, due to the Werewolves increased healing abilities and immune system.  Two day old wounds would look the same as wounds the wolf might have had for years, or since birth even, and it would be impossible for him to tell unless this wolf specifically told him where and when he’d gotten each individual one.  And with the wolf how he currently was, that wouldn’t be happening any time soon.    
  
Stepping back, Sherlock gave another curt little bow and turned his back on the cage, walking back the few feet to the table his notes and prior research had been loaded onto.  He’d start cataloging this data as soon as his team was assembled, and from there divide up the duties and tests they’d need to perform to get the required results, and hopefully the next of kin.  Sherlock shuddered to think what would happen to this poor man if they couldn’t find one.    
  
Turning, he was about to approach the enclosure again to try and get the Werewolf to stand up so he could see his full body when he noticed -rather suddenly- that the wolf was no longer laying down in its nest.  Instead, he was standing merely a hair’s width away from the plexiglass, his warm breath fogging up the surface in little panting clouds.  The sight so close and so sudden made Sherlock flinch back slightly, his head jerking to the side, but the Lycanthrope didn’t get any closer, nor did he move.  His body was taking up a majority of the space in front of the window, turned to the side so Sherlock could see all down the side of his body, left shoulder and hip nearly pressed into the glass.    
  
 _Dominant side_ , the thought struck Sherlock, _he’s showing me a display of will power and physical force._  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock tilted his head to the left, bearing the right side of his throat.  A sign of submission for a wolf, to bear the neck, and even more so to bear the dominant side of the body to the larger contender.  Betas and Omegas often bore their throats to one another depending on how they stood in a Pack or social hierarchy, and almost all members of a Pack bared their throats to the Alpha.  Going on the assumption that this wolf had lost his entire pack somewhere in the sands of Afghanistan, Sherlock reasoned that by pretending to be Pack -or at least showing his knowledge to the more wolf side of the Lycanthrope in front of him- would at least keep the unknown Werewolf complacent.  It seemed to work, and with a somewhat mighty huff, the wolf jerked its head in acceptance of the gesture.    
  
“Sherlock, my name is Sherlock.”  He said it slowly, carefully, trying to keep his voice even as he continued to bare his neck, though to a lesser degree now that the motion had been acknowledged.  “And who might you be?”    
  
It wouldn’t be that simple, which he knew.  It wouldn’t be as simple as to ask this Werewolf who he was and where they could locate his remaining family or legal kin.  Werewolves would never be that simple, and it was one of the many reasons that Sherlock loved them.    
  
But when the eyes of the Werewolf before him flared a brilliant and rather deep crimson, the entire situation seemed to compound and fracture into a million little shards.  An _Alpha_ , this wasn’t an Omega who’d lost his pack and anchors, oh no...it was an _Alpha_ who’d lost its entire pack.  Suddenly, all of the visible scars, wounds, and trauma the wolf had seemingly suffered made a whole lot more sense.    
  
Ironically, the discovery only made the situation grow a whole lot worse.    
  
“Oh, well then...” Sherlock said weakly, reaching for the cellphone that he’d stuffed into one of his pockets much earlier, hitting the redial button with almost crushing force.  “Aren’t you about a hundred times more dangerous now?”    
  
The sound of ringing on the line suddenly stopped as the phone was picked up, his brother’s somewhat confused sounding voice echoing over the line and into Sherlock’s ear.  He hardly heard it, his eyes glued to those of the Alpha before him, his throat clicking as it tried to work.  As he tried to tell his brother just what sort of problem they’d really found.  Because now they couldn’t just put the Werewolf down, despite its very feral state.  It was against the law to euthanize Alphas, no matter their mental condition, as per part of the Werewolf-Human Legislation and Treaty. They were important figures in the Werewolf community, ones that were almost off limits to anyone but the legal system.  The wolf would have to be tried and found guilty in order to receive any sort of legal sentencing, and Britain only made Capitol Punishment Decisions in the most extreme of cases now.  This wolf -this clever, clever Alpha- had just saved himself from being put down.    
  
“Sherlock!  I said, what’s going on?”  Mycroft all but roared over the phone, voice as level as it always was, despite the concern Sherlock could hear in it.  “Has something happened?  Are you alright?”    
  
“Yes...yes, Mycroft.”  Sherlock finally grit out, voice wobbling only slightly on the first word or so.  “But I’m afraid we’ve rather hit a snag.”  
  
“A snag?  What do you mean, a snag?”    
  
“Congratulations, Mycroft!  Your feral Werewolf is an Alpha!”    
  
Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he swore he could hear Mycroft drop the phone on the other end of the line.  Well, it certainly was quite the predicament. Not even Sherlock could blame his older brother for dropping the phone in shock. 


	3. Bark At The Moon

“If you are not in a Pack currently, you should just turn around and just leave.”  Sherlock’s voice was clipped, tight, rigid with stress and revelation.  The blasted rogue Werewolf was a bloody Alpha!  “Turn around and dismiss yourself immediately.  Off you lot go now.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  One of the men, a little narrow faced one with ratty dark hair and even rattier looking eyes, sneered.  Sherlock almost instantly had feelings that pertained to homicide when the man voice hit his ears.  Anderson, his mind supplied.  “What does being in a Pack have to do with working here?  That wasn’t on the requirements!”    
  
“Because, if you are not already in a Pack and bound under an Alpha, then you will not be of any use to me.  Our research subject is an Alpha.”  The sudden hush in the room, the utter silence, wasn’t lost on Sherlock.  All the Werewolves before him had froze in place, eyes gleaming faintly as they stared at him.  “He’d rip your apart if you got too close.”    
  
“He’s...”  One of the other men said, this one an older gentleman, his greying hair sleek and clean.  Sherlock recognized him from a few of his brother’s briefs and reports, and gave him an appraising once over.  “You means he’s not already got a Pack?  He’s looking for one?”    
  
“Yes, Lestrade.”  Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the man’s almost startled reaction. “Your name is Lestrade, yes?”    
  
“It is, Mr. Holmes.  But you can call me Greg, if you’d like.”  The man responded politely, tipping his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement.  “And I’m sorry, but as far as I’m aware, none of us are Pack affiliated.  They don’t always hire us if we are because of the Laws on Pack interactions.”    
  
Sherlock resisted the urge to groan loudly, instead narrowing his eyes at Lestrade.  It wasn’t this man’s fault that Mycroft was an incompetent, but it wasn’t really helping that he was bringing up such a clearly flawed portion of Sherlock’s plans.  Without bound Pack members, the Feral Alpha could potentially reach out and bend the lesser wolves to his will, or worse, bind them to him.  And in such a precarious mental state, it is possible that the feral nature could catch and spread to the other wolves.  Like a virus, almost.  If the original carrier had a strong version of the virus and it had already conquered the host’s strong immune system, then anyone with a weaker immune system would be fodder to the rampant virus.  Because an Alpha’s mental state would influence anyone under its Pack influence, regardless of whether or not they were actually inducted into the Pack.    
  
And here he was with about seven potential group candidates, none of which were under the care of an Alpha, only a few rooms down from said Alpha.  The very Feral Alpha.    
  
“Well then, alright.  With that in mind,” Sherlock sighed, picking up the stack of personal file folders off his desk.  He’d already looked through them twice, so this was just for show, but it was a technique he used from time to time. “Let’s see here.  Everyone but Lestrade, Donovan, and Hopkins can go now.  You heard me, move along.”    
  
A few of the remaining wolves grumbled, eyes narrowing only slightly as they wandered back towards the elevators.  Anderson in particular gave a rather nasty face as he was pulled back by one of the men at his elbow, his eyes flashing amber as he snarled.  Sherlock couldn’t care less at the man’s petty show, and had known that he wasn’t appropriate for the project almost the moment he’d opened the file Mycroft had sent down.  Sherlock wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten into the list of potentials to begin with, but it was just as easy to send him away as it was to make a phone call to tell him he wasn’t required at all.  (And Sherlock did so hate to talk on the phone.  He much preferred to text, thank you very much.)  The rest of those remaining just shrugged and moved on behind the others, light on their feet as many of their kind were, and just as silent.    
  
“Um, Sir, I was wondering what it was we’re going to be doing now?”  Lestrade said, eyes darting to the double steel doors behind Sherlock, his nose twitching ever so slightly.  The other two stood almost even with his shoulders, their own noses twitching.  “Because Intel wasn’t very specific with the job’s parameters.  And anytime I asked, all I got was silence.”    
  
“Ah, straight to the heart of the matter, Lestrade.  I have gathered you three -well soon to be two, most likely- Werewolves in order to assist me in a rather secretive research study.”  Sherlock said, throwing himself back into the swivel chair with enough force to send it squeaking off a few feet.  He slouched down into it, legs dragging on the linoleum slightly, shoes scuffling along.  “I’m going to require at least two of you when handling the subject of the study, seeing as how he’s much too strong for normal humans.”    
  
“I’m sorry, are you experimenting on a Lycan without his consent?”  Hopkins asked, almost startled, eyes gleaming.  “Are you asking for us to help you test on another Lycan?”    
  
“Well, yes, essentially.”  Sherlock shrugged.  “Although, once you see him, I’m sure you’ll change your tone.  But if you feel uncomfortable with this project, then you’re free to leave.  I cannot hold you here or make you work for me.”    
  
“I’m not going to test illegally on another of our kind!”  Hopkins nearly roared, voice only barely controlled, nails digging into his palms where they were extending into claws.  “I’ve heard of you, Holmes.  Some weird and reclusive researcher who experimented on Lycanthropes during the initial discovery period.  You did illegal tests on us for your own sick fancies.”    
  
Lestrade and Donovan’s gaze swiveled between a now enraged Hopkins and a infuriatingly calm Sherlock, calculating and ready to bolt.  Sherlock could read their intentions in the set of their shoulders, the tension building up in their arms, and the slight crouch their posture had taken on.  Werewolf body language was almost as important in their culture as actual speech was, and often communicated more than actual words every could.  In was one of the many things he’d studied in those “illegal tests” that Hopkins was accusing him of.    
  
“Calm yourself, I did nothing of the sort.”    
  
“You can lie all you want, but I know what you did.  What you’re capable of!”  Hopkins spun on his heel forcefully, almost certainly scratching the flooring as he did so, storming off towards the exit.  “And I won’t be apart of it!”    
  
Thankfully the doors weren’t made to be slammed, due to their weight and construction.  So instead of having the intended effect of emphasizing Hopkins‘ epic fit, they only made it look childish.  Sherlock smirked, the right corner of his mouth turning upwards a fraction as he watched on.  Lestrade and Donovan hadn’t made any move to follow yet though, and Sherlock counted that as a small victory.      
  
“Thank goodness for small favors.  I can’t have liabilities like him working on this project.”  Sherlock turned the chair to face the remaining two, cocking his head slightly in a silent question.  Lestrade and Donovan seemed to catch on.  “And what about you two?  Anymore rants, or can we get to the business at hand?”    
  
“You’re not doing anything illegal down here, are you?  I mean, to someone against their will?”  Lestrade seemed hesitant to ask, his posture defensive, almost ready to spring away and run at any moment.  “We’re not going to be...be torturing anyone, are we?  Your last name holds weight in our world.”    
  
“Of course not.  Don’t be an idiot.”  Sherlock waved him off as he moved to stand back up, approaching both of the remaining Werewolves.  Donovan hadn’t said anything, but he could still see her hesitance in the way she stood, and Lestrade was equally unsure.  “We have a rather aggressive Feral Alpha who needs identified, so that we can notify his next of kin that we have him.  I cannot perform some of the necessary tests without someone to help me manage him physically.  He’s very large and very upset.”     
  
“An Alpha?”  Finally Donovan spoke up, nearly shouting her confused outrage at him.  Her eyes had gone round and very, very wide.  “A Feral Alpha?  Here?”    
  
“Yes, I’m afraid he was one working for our Majesty’s Armed Forces.  Him and his Pack, most likely, though we cannot be certain.  We’re trying to identify him and figure it out.  It’s been a very tedious process so far.”  The doors that would lead back into the hallway and into the center run-turned-laboratory opened, allowing Sherlock and the two Werewolves inside before shutting behind them as they walked on.  “He’s not all there, if you understand me.  And any attempts to get anywhere near him have resulted in less than positive results.”    
  
“And by that you mean he’s tried to maul the lot of you.”  Lestrade said tightly, eyes slightly narrowed.  “I can smell him from here, now that I’m looking for it.  He’s not very happy.”    
  
“As he should be, if he’s lost his Pack and anchors.”  Sherlock nodded before placing his palm on the scanner, listening for the beep that would unlock the inner doors into the central room.  “You will both be printed and documented into the system if you chose to accept this assignment, as well as the best of medical and a mission specific bonus.  I’m warning you now, I’m not easy to work with, and this will not be kind work.  The hours will be long and more than likely dangerous, especially since neither of you are Pack bound.”  
  
“We have a Beta leading us.”  Donovan offered, almost casually, the set of her shoulders shifting slightly.  “So we have a bond.  Just not an Alpha’s bond.”    
  
“But it won’t do the same as an Alpha’s bond would to protect you against other Alphas, and you know this.  If this were a Feral Omega, or even a Beta, then you’d more than likely be just fine.  This, however, is an Alpha, and a rather unhinged one.”  The internal lights flickered on as the monitors blinked into life, and Sherlock gathered up some papers from the desk and replaced them with the files he’d been holding.  “You won’t be completely safe from his influence, but neither will you be completely susceptible to it.  In fact, I’m not even sure if he can use a Pack Call on you in the state he’s in, but I’d rather not find out the hard way.”    
  
“You think he’d try to rebuild a Pack that way?  Even though we’re unknown wolves to him?”  Lestrade was shaping up to be the more level of the two, Sherlock thought, but both of the Werewolves were smart and would be assets to this team.  “That’s just, that’s just a mockery of the Pack Bond.  And we’d resist anyways.”    
  
“I’m hoping that you won’t have to try.”  Sherlock agreed.  “But the Werewolf is not in his right mind, and might yet try.”    
  
“Well then, best be ready for him, yeah?”  Donovan was grinning, a most wolfish grin.  “Just in case.”    
  
 **\--** \--  
  
In the end, both Werewolves signed on for job.    
  
Lestrade was an older Werewolf -compared to Donovan and most employed Lycans Sherlock had encountered- and a strong, high level Beta to boot.  He was even tempered, cool in the face of danger, and had the innate ability to corral and bring other Werewolves back down to a steady level when they began to lose control. The personality he had was a calm, relaxed one, and gave off a sense of peace and safety to other stressed wolves while in his presence.  His file indicated that he’d been working for Scotland Yard when the entire Werewolf Outbreak and accompanying scare had ravaged the globe, a Sergeant just getting ready to be promoted to Detective Inspector when he’d been discovered and fired out of fear.  He’d taken with him a good chunk of the Met’s fleeing force with him.  During that time, most Werewolves had fled and gone into hiding, and now that fear was on a pretty swift decline, they were returning to the workforce.  Lestrade could have easily gotten his job back, and the promotion as well, but had for some reason refused to sign back on with the Met.  Mycroft, upon finding such a valuable resource, had quickly swooped in and scooped the poor man up.    
  
Likewise, Sally Donovan had also been working for the Met, but hadn’t been a field operative.  Instead, she’d worked in the filing and general paperwork department, and helped to run a sizable portion of the filing system.  When they started arresting and quarantining Werewolves, she’d been one of the first to find the orders, and had organized safe passage for many Werewolves city wise using the information she’d helped to file.  She hadn’t been found out until much later, but when she was, she’d been imprisoned for crimes against the country.  That was where Mycroft had found her much later, and he’d offered her a job where he thought her wit and resources wouldn’t go unused.  Graciously, she’d accepted, and had been working for his brother almost personally ever since.  She too would be an excellent addition to his merry band of lunatics.    
  
And, with the addition of the last two members of his team, Sherlock felt that it was high time to get the show on the road.  Molly, one of his underling graduate students dedicated to the cause since her college beginnings, had arrived on site yesterday afternoon just after set up, and Mrs. Hudson had been living a few blocks from this very compound for ages now.  She’d offered Sherlock one of the unused flats in her building for the duration of his stay, and despite the fact that he’d probably rarely go there, he took it and set up a secondary location for himself.  Of course he probably wouldn’t be there very much, but it was the thought and social norms that counted.    
  
Tomorrow, they would start up with the basic procedures and debriefing before getting down to brass tacks.  A few blood tests maybe, or some hair samples if they could get anywhere near the beast for either.  If not, it would be experimenting on sedative combinations until they found one that worked the best on the Alpha. Normal concoctions would work on an Omega or a Beta, and they wouldn’t have to have too much tampering done to them, but given the stature, size, disposition, and status of this Werewolf, if would take a lot more than just some common combination to put him out. That alone could take days, and with how he had been acting, Sherlock expected to have to go in guns blazing.  But for now, he was prepared, and going off to sit and start making more detailed plans.    
  
Tomorrow though, tomorrow it would begin.


	4. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas and other Holiday Greetings, guys! Here's my gift to all of you, a nice big chapter full of action and less tension. You get some relief, I promise! So I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I wrote it earlier than expected because my entire house hold is currently down with the Influenza and dying in their own rooms. I've sectioned myself off in hopes that I won't catch it, and I'm going to eat all the Christmas candies and goodies I've made.

Mrs. Martha Hudson was not, in fact, Sherlock’s house keeper.  A fact that she reminded him of daily, and when he was present and within shouting distance, almost bi-hourly.  Sherlock found it problematic at best, mainly because it didn’t matter to her that he didn’t need to be in the loaned apartment for her to call him out on his “disordered state of being.”  Her words, not his.  Sherlock would like that clarified.  Because he would never call his lab space -the most sacred of scientific spaces- such a derogatory term.    
  
Mrs. Hudson’s presence in his lab, which was almost a near constant as of late, seemed to almost require her to proclaim him a slob.  If his current apartment of office wasn’t getting ridiculed enough, she’d swiftly move on to his laboratory space.  Sherlock enjoyed those little tirades least of all.    
  
But no matter how much he may complain, gripe, snarl, or rage about what she’s gone and said or done this time, he would never, never get rid of her.  One, because she’s practically family by now, and two, because Mrs. Hudson has a secret.  It’s not a life threatening secret, or even one that is so secret that it can never be known.  Sherlock had figured it out within moments of meeting her for the first time and Mycroft had figured it out as equally fast as his younger brother had, but unless you knew what it was you were looking for, then Mrs. Hudson’s secret was safe.  Because Mrs. Hudson -despite all the lovely stories she’ll tell about her family and even a few stray ones about her husband here and there- is not a family woman.  She was, however, once a Alpha’s Mate.  And this singular fact, this intensely jarring fact, helps her to hide away from the world like she usually does, playing the dotting older mother or grandmother.    
  
And that’s where the secret hides:  Mrs. Hudson is immune to a Werewolf’s Bite.    
  
Although it isn’t an unheard of condition, it is ultimately incredibly rare to have the immunities needed to fight off the Lycanthropic Mutation that changes one from a human into a Werewolf.  Normally, the Bite can either turn you or kill you.  Because a majority of human immune systems and bodies can accept the mutation and the wolf mentality, the bitten will then develop a fever and turn partially during the remaining Full Moon, then fully at the next Full moon.  However, in some cases, the body fights back against the invading mutation and rejects it, causing the body to go into distress that ultimately kills the bitten.  The battle can last from a few hours to a few days, depending on the person’s strength and will power.  There is no way to predict how someone bitten will react, and once it happens there isn’t any going back on the decision.  You change or you die.    
  
But in those very rare few, there is a third option.  Sherlock likes to think of it as a get out of jail free pass, because even though the bitten develop the fever and initial signs of going into the shift, they never actually reach physical maturity, and in the morning the bit mark scabs over instead of disappearing.  From there, everything stays the same, and the human remains the same despite being introduced to the Mutation.  It is almost like a viral immunity, although the body doesn’t produce antigens.  The Mutation just doesn’t have the ability to effect the physiology or genetic makeup of those with the bite immunity.  Martha Hudson, mate to the fierce and ultimately feral Alpha Hudson, had been discovered to have such an immunity.      
  
Sherlock had only ever encountered a few people with this sort of fail-safe in their biological code, despite his travels all over the world and the studies he has conducted in a majority of them.  He can tick three off the top of his head at this very moment, though Mrs. Hudson’s is probably the most important person (and the closest to him personally) he can think of that has it.  He’ll never tell anyone he’s ever thought that, though he’s pretty sure his brother Mycroft already knows.  Mycroft seems to know everything here lately.    
  
So when he strides in the next morning, Belstaff coat flaring out behind him as he walks into the laboratory, and she straightens up from where she’d been organizing his files from last night, he immediately clamps down on any of the belligerent thoughts he’s having.  She spends five minutes tutting at him about his lacking in paperwork skills, then skillfully moves onto his eating and sleeping habits.  He’ll give her one thing, that woman can say more in one breath than anyone he’s ever met before.  And he’s Mycroft’s brother.    
  
“You were up pacing in that living room until quite early this morning, Sherlock.  Don’t think I couldn’t hear you through the flooring.”  She says with a small frown, but her eyes are twinkling in that way they always do.  “Despite your skeletal appearance, you’re not as quiet as you’d like.  And some of us would like to get a proper night’s sleep.”    
  
Sherlock’s groan was one for the record books.    
  
“Despite your age in comparison to mine, Mrs. Hudson, you are not, in fact, my Mummy.  Nor are you in charge of any of my habits, or my life.”  He grit his teeth once before letting the tension flow out of his shoulders, his hands flexing.  “If you’re so bored that you’ve moved on to such trivial matters, then I have a few suggestions for work that you can be starting.  It’s why I hired you, after all.”    
  
“But not as your house keeper, Deary, or any other keeper really.”  She nods decisively once, the movement sharp and foreign looking on her.  It always catches Sherlock’s notice when she does it.  “What would you like done then?”    
  
“Molly’s coming in a bit later to help me with the blood samples and cultures, but I’d like to get some hair samples before we try to get the blood.  We’re going to have to him under, most likely, and I want to put it off until he’s had lots of time to digest his breakfast.”  Sherlock picked up some of his tweezers, a few vials, and put on his work scrubs and lab coat.  “Let me get Lestrade and Donovan, and we can get started.”    
The two Werewolves were already on base, by the computer’s records, and for that Sherlock was thankful.  Punctuality was always something he wanted to have while building a team, because Sherlock absolutely detested having to wait on someone to start his work.  These two seemed to have clocked in well over two hours ago, almost a whole half-hour before Sherlock himself.  It made him smirk, however quickly, as he punched the summons in on his phone, sending the text with a quick thumb flick.  It wouldn’t take them long now, and when they arrived, Sherlock wanted to be ready.    
  
When the two Werewolves arrived, along with a few guard hands in tow, Sherlock was already in the zone, so to speak.  He’d briefed Mrs. Hudson on her duties for this round, and once he informed Lestrade and Donovan on how he’d like for this -ideally- to go down, they could really get started.    
  
“Ah, there you two are!  Do hurry up now, I’m wanting to get this over with before my research assistant shows up.”  His fresh gloves snapped into place against his wrists, the talcum powder flying slightly into the air before settling again.  “You two are going to help me wrestle him into submission if he doesn’t cooperate, which I’m expecting him not to.  Mrs. Hudson, you know your job, and I’m going to attempt to take my hair samples.”    
  
“Why aren’t you sedating him first?”  Sally asked, voice curious, but stance patient and level.  She didn’t really care.  “That would make more sense.”    
  
“Yes, it would, except that the sedatives will need to be repeatedly tweaked before their initial use, and Molly hasn’t arrived yet.  So I haven’t found a completely working formula.”  Sherlock looked at Sally, gaze calculating, watchful.  “Plus he’s an Alpha, and the more we use them on him, the more his natural biology responds to them, and starts creating ways to metabolize them quicker and quicker. Eventually, he will be very, very hard to sedate.”    
  
“You know more than I gave you credit for, Holmes.”  Sally nodded approvingly, her own vicious grin stretching across her face.  “Maybe this won’t be too painful after all.”    
  
“Quite.”    
  
Sherlock had checked on their mysterious guest this morning when he’d first come into work, and had found him starring at Sherlock from the nest.  Even when Sherlock stepped over the safety line, the wolf hadn’t even made a move to get up and charge the window as he had originally.  Sherlock counted it as project, but it was probably more desensitization or counting him as non-threatening than anything else.  He was, after all, not a wolf, and by himself wasn’t much more of a threat than a child would be against the very upset Alpha.  An Alpha that had astoundingly, surprisingly, calmed significantly since his brother had left them yesterday morning.  It seemed a bit...off, but there was only so much that Sherlock could speculate about without actually being able to place himself in the Werewolf’s mind.  And since that technology was rickety and more theoretical at best, the problem sort of explained itself.    
  
Now, Sherlock was just hoping that the wolf stayed as calm as it had been while they took what they needed before retreating.    
  
The plan was simple, really.  All Alphas needed instinctually a Pack, or someone with which to bond.  It was a natural drive for them.  So was finding a worthy mate, as well as building/strengthening an already existing Pack.  Sherlock theorized that since this Alpha’s Pack had been killed -and likely his mate, if he’d had one- then he’d feel the pull to find worthy Werewolves and Humans around him and try to put them into his Pack.  The two Betas he’d selected for his team would be perfect choices for a new Pack, and even if the instinct doesn’t take over, they’ll still be assets in helping to curb and control the raging wolf inside the enclosure.  Mrs. Hudson, having been an Alpha’s Mate for years before Sherlock had met her, had more experience with Alpha Werewolves than anyone else present.  If the Alpha did have some sort of instinctual epiphany, she’d be able help guide them better than he could.  And together with the two unbound Betas, Sherlock was hoping to get the Feral wolf working enough on Pack drives to snap it out of whatever was holding him in his more animal like state.    
  
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get started.  You two first, then I’ll go.  Mrs. Hudson, please stay back and bring up the rear.”  Sherlock strode over to the keypad locked panel, typing in his code.  The wolf hadn’t budged, golden eyes gleaming from the nest.  “Let’s do this as smoothly as possible.”    
  
The slim corner door hissed to the side quickly, revealing an opening of about three foot, much smaller than the nearly full wall door that would slide up into the ceiling recess and out into the opening of the central area.  The larger door was made for wolves during their full shifts, so that their sometimes well oversized forms could easily maneuver between places easily.  And it wouldn’t be opened again until this wolf regained his humanity and senses.    
  
Sally was the first one in, posture hunched and submissive in nature, head tilted back and throat slightly bared in a show of submission and a pledge of no harm.  Lestrade was over the threshold next, the same non-threatening pose mirrored in his stance, and it was then that the growling started.  The wolf hadn’t gotten to his feet entirely, but the entire front of his body was leveled up off the ground, head low to the ground, snout wrinkled and pulled taunt in a terrible snarl.  They were deep, threatening growls, ones that reverberated off and around the room, folding in on themselves.  There was a never ending sound, ebbing up and down with each renewed breath.  But he hadn’t moved.    
  
Next came Sherlock, lengthy body folded up as much as he could while still being able to move.  His eyes were averted, just like the other two’s were, every sign of submission he could think to replicate in his stance.  The wolf didn’t hesitate to practically lunge up from his half-sitting position, back arched, head lowered, and snarls turning into full out growling.  Ones that changed in pitch and tone, teeth snapping and flashing at the three of them as the Alpha took one mighty, lumbering step forwards.  Both of the other wolves froze in place, eyes snapping to the now moving Werewolf as they both stooped lower to the ground at the knees.    
  
“Don’t move.”  Sherlock tried to whisper, but it ended up coming out as more of a hiss than anything.  “Don’t do anything.”    
  
Both Werewolves nodded, eyes never straying from the larger wolf’s hulking form only a few feet from them in an enclosed, tight space.  If the Alpha decided to lunge, if he decided that this was an encroachment on his territory, then things were about to get very, very violent.  Sherlock had hoped to be a little bit closer than this before the wolf lost his mind.    
  
The wolf hunched, and in the split second before he leapt, Sherlock saw it coming, saw his entirety of his life fly before his eyes.  Lestrade and Donovan weren’t quick enough, despite the almost deafening sound of them shifting in the corner before the still open doorway, and before they could leap to his side, the Alpha was on him.  The weight slammed into him with all the force of a raging Alpha could muster, the air in his lungs being forced out by the weight on his torso.  Claws flexed and threatened to tear into vulnerable flesh with the ease of a warm knife through butter, and Sherlock knew it.  Knew it like he knew a million different things about Werewolves, and yet he knew nothing at all.  The damp, warm breath wreaking of old meat and stale, dried blood pouring out between snarled lips and glistening teeth.    
  
This would be over before Lestrade of Donovan could even attempt to extract him, and nothing was going to stop him.    
  
“Stop you, that’s quite enough now.  Let him up.”  Mrs. Hudson’s voice was strong, clear, and full of authority that any Alpha’s Mate should possess.  “You heard me, now let him up.  He’s done nothing to you.”    
  
Sherlock watched in awe as the wolf’s large head slowly swiveled up to stare down Mrs. Hudson, who was standing to his left (his dominant side, Sherlock noted, well chosen!) with her hands spread downwards and away from her body in a sign of submission but strength.  She wouldn’t be any match for the enraged beast before both of them, doubly so with her age, but in that moment, Sherlock thought she looked younger than he’d ever seen her.  Her eyes shinning and radiating that inner light and strength that was every bit Mrs. Hudson as were her herbal soothers and overly sweet cups of tea with a bit too much milk in them.  He didn’t know what he’d do without her.    
  
The Alpha growled harder, eyes flashing a deep red as he snapped at Mrs. Hudson, who’d begun to unbutton the top few buttons of her blouse.  She pulled it gingerly to the side, exposing the side of her neck, and the ferocious looking bite scar that marred her pale skin from just below her jaw all the way down to her collar bones.  An Alpha’s Bite, one that hadn’t taken, but a claiming mark none-the-less.  The Alpha saw it and froze, snarls dying down, eyes flashing crimson more and more as he almost shyly scooted forwards to sniff at the mark, ears flattening against his skull as he went.  The weight shifted off the top of Sherlock gradually, his breath filling back into his lungs in slow increments as the Alpha moved to loom over Mrs. Hudson more and more.    
  
“Sherlock, be a dear and get yourself up and out.  I’m going to sit here with this lovely dear while you get your hair samples and then scoot.”  She smiled down at him, but the smile was drawn and rough around the edges.  “Out you go now.”    
  
Slowly, Sherlock pulled himself out from under the hefty weight of the singular paw still pinning him down on the ground, the claws snagging in the clothe as he slowly moved.  A few hairs were littering his shirt and trousers, but just for good measure, Sherlock reached up and ran his fingers down the paw resting nearest his head, gathering a handful of the loose fur.  That would be more than enough for his needs.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson...” Sherlock hazarded as he rested his back against the wall behind him, to her back and the Wolf’s front.  “I expect you back in tact and ready for work.”    
  
The Alpha growled, and Mrs. Hudson smiled.    
  
“Of course, Dear.  Now run along and do your tests, Sherlock.  I’ll be along shortly.”  She waved her hand at him over her shoulder, almost carelessly as she continued to meet the Alpha’s eyes without hesitation.  “We’re just going to sit here, aren’t we Dear?  Yes, yes we are.”    
  
The rumbling, almost purring growl followed Sherlock all the way out of the cell.    
  



	5. Werewolves Of London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short guys, but I've been sick and just restarted school this week. It is going to be a bit slow for right now. I'll try to post as much as possible though, promise. Thanks for hanging in there with me!

It’s Christmas Eve and there’s a sheer, stabbing spike of agony lancing through his head.  The same feeling has been coming and go for a while now, off and on as he continues his various research and testing.  Sherlock’s been hunched over his work table for almost three days straight now, since the incident inside the cell with Mrs. Hudson, and hasn’t given himself the time of day since then.  There have been too many tests, to many ideas, not enough time in the day for anything really important!  He had gone home that first night, but not since then, and before Mrs. Hudson and Molly had left for the evening, they were both giving him that _look_ he despised oh so very much.  It was just on two different faces, but it was the exact same look.  He only vaguely recognized it as worry or concern or something equally as tedious, pity maybe at points.  He didn’t have the time for it.  And he didn’t want it.  

 

If he had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t be going home tonight either, not until the final DNA results came in.  He’d had to send off for the hair DNA to be run against the United Kingdom’s Central database, because this facility did not have the sort of access he’d needed after all to identify their furry friend.  This Werewolf and his Pack had not been in the general Pack populations or infantry like he’d initially expected, or even in any of the general Britain listings.  Which could only mean that he was higher up, with an identity protected from some of the very government that they served, and anyone curious enough to look.  Curious, but not unheard off, despite the initial frustrations the DNA results he’d conducted had yielded.  So he’d given some of the fur to Mycroft to have run, and his brother had promised that he’d be getting some results back this evening if the Alpha was indeed someone he had access too. (Mycroft hadn’t said anything about there being a rush put on the DNA, but Sherlock wasn’t foolish enough to miss the obvious signs.) And Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft would find him, because despite what he said, Mycroft had more access to everything in their neck of the world then he let on.  

 

Sooner or later, his phone would go off.  Sooner or later, Sherlock would know.  Have some vague but pointing idea of where to go from here.  It was something he needed desperately, immediately... But for now he had to wait.  

 

Sherlock _hated_ waiting.  

 

It was a game that lost its appeal so quickly in his youth, and the trait had carried over into his adult life even more so as his patience grew thin and his social appeal thinner.  So now he was trying to busy himself, running every last test he could think of on the hair he had and the other small samples they’d been able to collect with the help of Mrs. Hudson’s presence and Lestrade and Donovan’s assistance to try and piece together just where the Pack could have been before they’d disappeared and left a rogue Alpha.  If there were any key traces of elements he could use to pinpoint their general location, to help track down those missing.  Even if they were only bits of bodies left after all this time.  Anything was better than nothing, and for an Alpha with no closure, it would mean the world.    

 

The Alpha himself had actually calmed down as of late, his movements more controlled and closer to a normal frame of mind than they had been when Sherlock had first met him, but not even he was egotistical enough to claim that as his own work.  It was more likely Mrs. Hudson’s work, the work of a much older Alpha’s Mate with no Pack of her own anymore, but the feelings of safety and instinct to protect and sooth still strong.  She wasn’t threatening, because there was no longer the scent of her Mate clinging to her, and she had no territory of her own to give.  Her being near the Alpha just meant safety and security, and place of balance and tranquility where the scared and raging beast had found haven.  He was more relaxed now that Mrs. Hudson had come to stay, and it didn’t hurt that Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest of the team were almost submissive to him either. Even Sherlock would admit that he’d fallen into the role without meaning to, if only to benefit their guest. They weren’t there to hurt him, and it was starting to look like he had finally realized that.  

 

Which was, of course, when Sherlock’s body decided it was a good idea to throw a wrench into the whole operation.  But wasn’t that just typical? Biology and Physiology, despite his near life-long dedication to them, were not his friends.  Nor were they even reliable at times. 

 

He refused to say he was sick, both to himself or out loud, because it would only make it real.  Or jinx it... Maybe both.  No, Sherlock wasn’t sick, he was just a bit tired and run down and would sleep in a minute.  Except the minute never came, and as he continued on with what he was doing, the pain in his forehead and between his eyes only continued to grow worse and worse.  And as it grew worse, it seemed to spread.  The medication he’d begun taking at Molly’s insistence had stopped working quite some time ago, but he refused to stop now.  He was going to make the important find this evening.  He was going to figure out who this poor fellow was before all this had happened.  Then, and only then, would he leave the facility, go back to his rented rooms, and get some well-deserved and much needed rest.  Because once they knew who the poor chap was, they could begin looking for his family or at least someone who knew him.  And that would be the descent of the case on a whole, he wouldn’t be needed as much anymore.  He could afford a few days to rest.  

 

“Happy Christmas, you poor sod.”  Sherlock said under his breath as he finally threw himself down into his chair, causing it to scoot across the floor slightly.  “For Christmas we’re both supposed to be receiving news of who it is you are.  I’d just like to say that it is about time.”  

 

The Werewolf Alpha didn’t say anything, not that Sherlock expected him too, but he did incline his head ever so slightly in his direction.  It was nothing, but Sherlock would like to think that somewhere deep down in that Feral brain of his, the wolf at least partially understood what it was being said to him or around him.  Werewolves, despite what was said about them in the media or in news rags, were highly intelligent creatures in both shifts.  They don’t simply lose that intelligence, and to imply that happens is a slight that Sherlock simply despises.  Wolves, or at least a majority of them, were -on average- much more intelligent than most normal Humans, thanks to natural instincts and a more social Pack mentality.  Or, at least, that’s what Sherlock thought, seeing as how he much preferred their company to normal people’s.  So dull...

 

A sudden pain in his chest made him worry for a second before he realized it was because he’d begun to think about his brother Sherrinford, whom he hadn’t seen in ages.  Sherlock wasn’t even sure he was still alive, and despite the frequent requests made to Mycroft at the beginning of his brother’s mysterious vanishing, he doubted either of them really knew where their long-lost elder brother was now.  Gone nearly thirteen years, he’d vanished from their familial halls only a few days before the New Year without a word to anyone and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.  Mycroft had searched for months in hopes of finding him, and yet nothing was ever found.  About this time of year all of the Holmes still living would think back to the missing brother and his many personality quirks, Sherlock being no exception.  He missed his elder brother fiercely, a sense of loss that had helped to drive him apart from the rest of his family.  His brothers had taught him the ways of the world, but now their relationships lay in utter ruins, their shared intellect a constant reminding jab to his heart and brain.  Sherrinford had found others dull the most often, but Mycroft soon grew to share the opinion just as much, leaving only Sherlock to come into it on his own.  

 

He had, and he could safely say that without his work, he would have long retired from social situations and the company of others.  It was a constant battle of wills now, and he’d already been considering purchasing a small cottage out int he middle of the country where he could live simply.  Perhaps even raise some bees as he wrote up and finished his research, disappearing like his brother had done all those years ago.  This little side trip had only delayed his intentions until after the new year.  

 

The vibration of his cell phone in his front pocket drew his attention away from those more maudlin thoughts and back into his work related ones, deft fingers snatching the small piece of technology from his inside breast pocket.  The caller ID was blank, but Sherlock knew who it was.  He still wanted to know how Mycroft did that.  

 

“The results, Mycroft.”  Sherlock’s deep baritone sounded impossibly loud in the empty laboratory, but seemingly didn’t bother the Werewolf in the next room.  “Tell me you found him.”  

 

“I would hope you had more faith in my abilities than that, Sherlock.  But yes, I have a name for you.”  Mycroft was calm and cool sounding, the only hits of fatigue curling gently at the end of Sherlock’s name.  “Captain John Hamish Watson and his Pack were deployed on a covert mission in Afghanistan with the instructions of aiding the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, who were under heavy attack and in need of support.  It appears that there were only a small handful of survivors from the nearly two month long siege, none of which were of the Watson Pack.  They were counted amongst the deceased sometime earlier in the year.  Such a shame, for such a well-trained and experienced Pack.”  

 

“And this is the Alpha?  This is Captain Watson?”  Sherlock’s voice nearly shook, adrenaline pumping through him furiously at the grisly news.  “You are sure of it.”  

 

“I am, Sherlock.  You know I would not call you with information I hadn’t personally reviewed after extensive checking.”  A clanking sound could be heard in the small room behind Sherlock, but he simply shrugged it off to the Wolf getting up upon hearing someone else’s voice in the room.  “This is your Werewolf.”  

 

“Excellent, I’ll have to run background checks on him, but we’ll be further along than I had--” 

 

The loud screech of rending metal rang shrilly down the receiver, before the sound of whistling replaced it, a loud crash as the line went abruptly dead.  

 

Mycroft had jerked the phone far away from his ear at the beginning of the noise, eyes widening briefly before he slapped the emergency button on the underside of his desk.  He’d struck it with enough force to slightly crack the wooden painted plastic covering that kept it hidden inside the hollow portion of his desk.  The alarms blared to life around him as his door was thrown open to reveal a slightly flustered Anthea, her Blackberry clasped tightly in one hand and a gun in the other as she looked towards Mycroft for the intruder before realizing there wasn’t one. The sound of armed guards militarizing down the hall echoed back to them both as her entire posture shifting, the gun going back into its holster, her shoulders relaxing as she looked at him inquisitively.  

 

“Orders, Sir?” Her voice was precise, tone calm.   

 

“I fear my brother is in danger, Anthea.”  Mycroft replied, swiftly rising from the chair, the _again_ part of the sentence left out but clearly implied.  “Let’s put the facility he’s working with into lock down, send out the guard as usual, and I’ll be needing a car as well.”  

 

“But Sir...”  Anthea wasn’t on to argue, but normally her boss didn’t go himself out into the field.  “The AWTF can handle it.  There’s no need for you to go yourself.”  

 

“It is my brother, Anthea.  I’m sure you can sympathize.  He can be such a challenge, sometimes, as you well know.  Can’t leave him to his own devices, now can we?”  

 

A paused before “Of course.  Your car is on its way, Sir.” 


	6. We Bite

Sherlock blinked up a the ceiling of his bedroom groggily, a disinterested groan tearing out of his throat with little to no regards towards proper decorum.  It had been three days now since Alpha John Watson had broken out of the military holding facility and labs, three days since Sherlock had collapsed due to the raging fever he’d been sporting.  He’d spent Christmas and Boxing Day cooped up in a hospital cot, stale sheets itching at his skin, repeatedly telling his brother that nothing had happened down in the labs.  That Alpha Watson had somehow escaped their confines and simply knocked him out from behind, he’d never even seen it coming.  Add to that the fever he’d already had, and the results were Sherlock’s prolonged unconscious state.  He’d be fine in a few days, a week at most, and then he’d be back to work.  Sherlock didn’t tell Mycroft that he’d met the Alpha’s eyes as he had swiped one large paw at him, knocking him into the wall where he’d crumpled.  He didn’t tell Mycroft how red those eyes had been, how clear and absolutely calm they had seemed.    

 

Stress-induced, Mycroft’s top physicians had said after running their own little foray of tests, too much of pushing his physical limitations without enough sleep to back them up.  He’d made himself sick, is what they were saying, and it had made Sherlock sneer at everyone while they’d bustled about him.  The head wound was not much more than a scrape, and he hadn’t had a concussion.  Sherlock would be just fine, as long as he got proper rest and nutrients.  He’d almost immediately begun demanding to be discharged from their care so that he could return home to lick his wounds in private.  So that he could return to his work.  

 

But much to his displeasure, they had only let him go the day before, happy with his semi-rapid improvement health wise, aided by a drip IV and more than two consecutive hours of sleep at a time.  Mycroft had still banned him from stepping even a foot inside his lab space, instead only grudgingly allowing Molly to take his place and continue on with the running of their samples and tests.  It was made in return for the promise that Sherlock would allow himself proper time to recover, and that if he so much as strained himself, the entire deal was off and he’d remove Ms. Hooper himself.  He was allowed to help search for the missing Alpha, but at least Mycroft had relented enough to give him daily updates on their search progress.  He’d even delivered the files and reports personally, but Sherlock suspected that was more to make sure he was keeping his end of the bargain than insuring proper information relay.  Mycroft’s reports more than made up for the confinement, though.  

 

John had been a very busy Alpha, it seemed.

 

His first stop after clawing and tearing his way out of the compound had been to St. Bart’s Hospital, where he and one of his Pack Betas had worked for years.  Dr. Mike Stamford, presumed missing and shortly after dead, had worked at the hospital with his Alpha since their days at Uni.  (John had met Stamford there, and had not long after inducted the lone wolf into his Pack.)  Their shared office space was on the second floor in a lesser used wing, and had been invaded through the street-facing window.  The long claw marks on the outside of the stone facade had more than hinted at just how such a large wolf had been able to break in, but not be seen by anyone.  

 

The office itself had been ransacked.  Drawers were pulled out of both desks, the coat stand had been knocked over and broken into several smaller pieces, paperwork and files scattered madly as the Alpha had searched for something.  It was later noticed that all items containing the scent had been taken away with John into the night, including the ripped up seat cover that had once been an office chair.  Sherlock knew that John was searching for his lost Pack, returning to familiar places on instinct and scent to help him suss out wherever his underlings had gone off too, but was generally confused as to why John had taken anything with him at all.  After all, it would only serve to weigh him down, unless he was relying on the preserved scent to help him track the others.  His wolf mind either didn’t know that they were dead, or just couldn’t accept the fact, choosing instead to block out the painful information.  Either way, it left the Feral Alpha in a dangerous and heightened state, frantically searching through the heavily populated areas of London for his missing Pack.

 

The Pack List still sat on Sherlock’s desk, reading each name in the same small font that all the files were printed in.  Behind each name, in large red print, read the words “DECEASED” along with wether or not a body had been recovered for them amongst the sands of Afghanistan. One of them even had partial recovery as its markings, and Sherlock knew that what they had found had not been all of the wolf’s mate John’s sister had taken.  

 

The very bottom of the page had the note about John’s later recovery, despite that at the time they had no identification for him and could not perform the necessary genetic testing.  Mycroft must have put it on there for him instead of letting it be separated.  It was rather important, after all, in figuring out just how Watson had become so utterly feral.    

 

**Watson Pack:**

Current Alpha: John Hamish Watson “ DECEASED ” - _Not Recovered_

Harriet “Harry” Watson “ DECEASED ” - _Not Recovered_

Clara Oswald-Watson “ DECEASED ” - _Partially Recovered_

Ex _-_ Alpha Mate Emma Watson “ DECEASED ” - _Recovered_

Bill Murray “ DECEASED ” - _Recovered_

Mike Stamford “ DECEASED ” - _Not Recovered_

Arthur Hastings (Human) “ DECEASED ” - _Recovered_

Mary Morstan “ DECEASED ” - _Not Recovered_

 

 

At least Sherlock was still able to spearhead the on-going search from his flat based on the information he’d been given, the deductions he made based on observed behavior and what he knew about Werewolf instincts.  He was safe in his living room, in his pajamas and robe, lounging either on his favored leather chair or the couch, starring up at the walls.  All of them had been covered nearly floor to ceiling in his case notes, paper pinned wildly to the walls in ways that only made sense to his trained eye.  He’d advised his brother to find the Watson Pack’s Den location after John had broken into his sister Harry’s office on the second night, to steal a long forgotten coat and scarf that had been hanging on the back of the door.  John had then gone to Harry’s wife’s childhood home on the other side of the city, where he’d scaled up the eight floors using the apartment fire escape in order to reach Clara Oswald-Watson’s window.  

 

Clara’s parents had awoken to the cool city night air blowing in through the open window and a large, growling Alpha curled up in the tiny, child sized bed surrounded by fabric and clothing that did not belong to their dead daughter.  They had panicked, of course, and returned to their own bedroom to lock themselves in, before calling the police to report the Werewolf in their other room.  Luckily, Mycroft had intercepted the call and stopped the Yarders cold before calling in his own operation and a well trained group of AWTF recruits.  A group of thirty or more kevlar covered men and women surrounded the building not ten minutes later, intent to take the Alpha down without harm to him or any civilians, when the whole things had gone to Hell.  

 

Needless to say, that the plan hadn’t gone over well with John Watson, who had flipped his lid when the first wave of soldiers penetrated the perimeter and his safety zone.  John had then proceeded to destroy the Oswald flat in his attempts to escape and what Sherlock knew was confused rage, mostly at being denied his Pack, but also for being shot at.  He’d pulled off his escape too, without killing any of Mycroft’s men, and secretly Sherlock was rather impressed.  Anyone who could get one over on his elder brother couldn’t be too mentally bereft, right?  Dr. John Watson, MIA Alpha, was quickly becoming more and more interesting, while at the same time becoming more and more elusive.  Cunning, Sherlock added to the list of John’s many different personality traits, even when under duress.  

 

On the forth day, Mycroft came to Baker Street earlier than usual, flanked tightly by Anthea, his own personal werewolf assistant-turned-bodyguard.  She was tapping away at a custom Blackberry, Sherlock noted, and hadn’t raised her head once since climbing out of the back of Mycroft’s town car out front.  Trailing behind them were Lestrade and Donovan, both carrying themselves in overly submissive ways, screaming their compliance and loyalty.  Mycroft had clearly put the fear of god into them at some point, out-powering and out-maneuvering them both easily in a display Sherlock was glad he’d missed.  Both of the unbound Betas were displaying appropriate responses for their class, as if they’d been reamed by an Alpha.  And despite not actually being a Werewolf himself, Mycroft more than had an Alpha’s personality to make up for the lacking wolf.  He’d clearly just put it to use over the two wolves with him, and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder why.  Unbound wolves didn’t normally react to a dressing down from a human as they would from an Alpha, and certainly wouldn’t act as though they’d been shamed in front of their Pack.  But here they both were, heads hung down in shame, hands held together before them, eyes on the ground, walking stiffly in behind his insufferable brother.  

 

Sherlock knew a power play when he saw one.  But he wasn’t the sort to be cowed by Mycroft, despite his intensity.  He wasn’t like others were in his brother’s presence, and it was because of that natural resistance that a rather vicious fight broke out between them.  Verbally, of course, neither of the Holmes men would ever stoop so low as to actually hitting the other, let alone other forms of physical violence.  

 

“What have you done to them, Mycroft?  One would think you’d publicly whipped them.” Sherlock’s first remark wasn’t bland, the scathing bard designed to inflict as much damage as it could.  Both Betas had flinched, but Anthea had just raised an eyebrow at him over the top of her phone.  “Or perhaps you just had one of your many goons do it?”  

 

“Come now, Sherlock, you know quite well that they’re both fine.  More than fine, really.”  Mycroft’s eyes had only tightened fractionally at the outside edges, the only relay of tension he displayed.  “As will you, once they get moved in downstairs.”  

 

Sherlock’s explosive “Excuse me?” made all three Werewolves present cringe at the octave it was shouted at, the volume just as hurtful overall as the octave had been.  

 

“They’re here to watch over you, Sherlock.  Keep you out of trouble.  I know how much you love trying to find loop holes in our little bargains.  Ways to sneak around my restrictions without actually breaking our contracts.”  Mycroft smirked faintly before tapping his umbrella twice, both of the wolves behind him moving back off downstairs to presumably bring in their possessions.  “They’re thinking of it a bit like a paid holiday.  I suggest that you do the same.”  

 

“That was not part of the agreement, Mycroft!  I agreed not to meddle, not to leave, to rest as long as I could help with the search and have Molly continuing my tests.  No where in there did I agree to a furry escort!”  Sherlock knew his face was thunderous, but it was doing little to move Mycroft, apparently, as he still wouldn’t budge.  “I don’t want them here.  I have Mrs. Hudson.”  

 

“She is not a Werewolf, Sherlock, as you well know.  And you’re hardly in any position to protect yourself against a brisk wind, let alone a Feral Alpha.  One who is probably rather enraged at you and your little tests.”  

 

“Protect myself from what, though?  I sincerely doubt that the Alpha will come here, and even if he did, two unbound Betas are hardly going to be a proper defense against him.  Especially if he is as enraged as you seem to think he is.”  Sherlock lowered his voice then, almost hissing at Mycroft.  “He’d rip them to shreds and you know it.”  

 

Mycroft nodded slightly, head inclining as it came back, tipping gently to the side when he wanted to tell Sherlock he was being particularly dense but had no desire to actually speak to him.  Sherlock resented to action and sneered at his brother instead, one hand waving him off.  

 

“They’ll be moving into 221 C until further notice, Sherlock.  And do try to be nice to them, and their sense of smell.  I know all about the mold cultures in the kitchen.  Don’t make me tell Mrs. Hudson.”  Sherlock considered giving Mycroft a rather rude hand gesture before fighting to desire off, but only just.  “I’ll be back at the end of the week to check in and give you your updates.”  

 

“The end of the week?  Why so long?”  

 

“Holiday, Sherlock.  New Years is in two days, and hardly anyone will be working.  You know that.”  Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella tip again.  “We will still be looking for Alpha Watson, of course, but even I have to give New Years off.  Legalities, I’m afraid.”  

 

“Dreadful things, I’m sure.”  Sherlock grumbled before practically flinging himself back onto the couch, robe flaring dramatically out behind him as he went.  The New Year?  So soon?  My, how time had flown.  

 

A distinct pressure was starting up in his neck and shoulders, the familiar throb of an oncoming migraine.  Of course Mycroft’s presence would cause that!  He wouldn’t expect anything less from the pompous windbag.  

 

“And remember what I said, Sherlock.  They’re here for your protection, so let them do their job.  Who knows, you might end up keeping them on after all of this is over.”

 

Anthea’s loud answering snort was, at least, something Sherlock could agree with.    

 


	7. I Am The Wolf, I Am The man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so what if John has a bit of a furry problem while Sherlock tries to explain just why he can't take on the Alpha's case?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so late guys. I broke my hand! Whoops!

Greg and Sally move in, bringing with them a sense of home that Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt before.  They took up space, sure, but they contributed, they argued sometimes (easy to hear from even up here), but they also cooked, did laundry, made sure he was resting.  And for the next few days, things are good.  Well, as good as they’re likely to get with the two Betas living in the same building as he and Mrs. Hudson and the surveillance that Sherlock knows his brother Mycroft put in only hours before he himself moved in.  But it’s not a bad way to live, which is more than enough to surprise Sherlock.  

 

He’d expected them to constantly be breathing down his neck, bearing down on him from all sides, looking over his shoulder, watching him.  But they don’t.  They mostly just stick to their own little shared apartment space downstairs, even keeping relatively quiet when they know he’s trying to work.  Mrs. Hudson was over the moon, and had gone into full on Pack Mother Mode.  She started making all sorts of baked goods for them to eat or much on, and pops by with tea or coffee or a thousand other things every few hours, and Sherlock’s beginning to think she’s trying to passively get him to eat more.  She and Sally, who has also tried her hand at baking with Mrs. Hudson.  

 

It’s working.  He’s gained three pounds since moving in with the older woman, and when the Werewolves came, it only seemed to encourage her more.  He knew he was destined to gain more the longer he lingered with Mycroft’s job.  

 

Perhaps that’s why he’d agreed to them having a small New Years get-together. The three of them had almost demanded, each separately, and then once more in a group.  They wouldn’t have to go out into public, to a pub, Sally had reminded him while he’d grumbled and fought the decision tooth and nail.  He wouldn’t be subjected to every stupid, drunken person in the greater area of London if they stayed in together, was Lestrade’s argument.  If they just had a small get together here, Mrs. Hudson would have a chance to cook a big family meal again.  The entire attempt to get him to relent was almost as much work as he expected any New Year’s celebrations would be.  

 

Reluctantly, he’d agreed, and then wandered back upstairs to continue with his independent experiments while they all celebrated down on the landing.  He’d run out of news on their Alpha the day before and had fallen back onto his own research in the mean time.  It kept him occupied, at least, and away from the rest of the building occupants more often than not.  Kept him away while they plotted.  He knew they were plotting, he just knew it.  

 

Come New Year’s Eve, their promised _small_ , _little_ , _quiet_ get together had turned into something else entirely.  And by something else entirely, Sherlock meant that there were more people in his flat at Baker Street then there should have been.  There were at least fifteen people here, most of which Sherlock did not know, and with the exception of Mrs. Hudson, he didn’t immediately recognize anyone.  

 

Upon closer inspection, he spied Lestrade at one side of the room, chatting with a small group of men that were all laughing at something he’d said.  A joke no doubt, even though Lestrade’s jokes were terrible.  And Sally was at the other side, a few people who looked to have come straight from The Met in a loose half-circle around her.  They were quietly chatting, but everyone of them were in uniform or work clothing, and Sherlock suspected they were old colleagues on their way to work.  Werewolves, no doubt, or at least friendlies they’d known for at least two years.  Maybe three, given the familiar way Lestrade was smacking a few of the blokes on the back as they caroused and moved towards Sally and her own group.  

 

“Quite the party, Sherlock.”  

 

“Mycroft.”  Sherlock nodded tightly, looking just past his shoulder to where his brother was lingering int he doorway, customary umbrella tucked at the crook of one arm.  “What brings you here?  You detest social functions so.”  

 

“Hardly, Sherlock.  Just those that I’m forced into attending.  I was invited by Mrs. Hudson, and while I hardly know any of your contemporaries, I did wish to come.  It isn’t often I get to see you, especially not at holidays.”  Mycroft nodded when Mrs, Hudson walked by briskly, shoving a festive plastic cup filled with something into his hands.  Sherlock watched him as he swirled the cup and gave it a faintly distasteful look. “How... festive a party this is.”   

 

Sherlock fought to hold in a smirk.  

 

“I don’t know any of them, with the exception of Lestrade, Donovan, and Mrs, Hudson.”  He continued after he’d regained control over himself.  “I doubt I’ll stay long, but it would hurt Mrs. Hudson had I not come down at all.  And she would have most certainly come up after me had I not made an appearance.”  

 

Mycroft hummed, tilting his head in what Sherlock knew was understanding, eyes trailing over the room.  “Well it seems that one of them knows you, or knows of you, Sherlock.  Look, see, there in the corner, behind the man standing next to your Beta.  At the window in the corner by your desk.”  Sherlock looked to where his brother indicated.  “Sandy hair, short, standing at an angle with his back to the wall and his right side tucked in at the glass.  I’m not familiar with him.”  

 

“I wonder if he’s one of Donovan or Lestrade’s colleagues?  Perhaps Mrs. Hudson, a previous tenant, no doubt.”  

 

Sherlock watched him carefully, how he was standing, how he was holding himself.  He had no party favors or food, no cup to hold, and his clothing looked odd and mismatched, a large, lumpy jumper pulled over off-colored pants.  The man’s shoes were scuffed up at the toes, as if they were too big for him, or he hadn’t owned them long enough to get used to them yet.  He wore no jewelry or distinctive markings that would stand him out from anyone around him, but it was his averageness that made him stand out so much here.  And he wasn’t human, judging by the familiar sniffing gesture he kept making every few minutes, head tilted just a faction upwards to the air around him.  None of the other guests seemed to give him any attention, and he probably would have gone on unnoticed had Mycroft not pointed him out.  

 

“That’s strange, I wasn’t aware that he was even here before.  He must have come in after me, as he wasn’t here when I arrived, but I never noticed anyone coming in behind me until you.”  Sherlock said calmly, eyes locked on the man.  Something was very, very off about him.  “Do you know him, Mycroft?”  

 

“No, but I feel as if I should.”  

 

“The feeling is mutual.  We should ask Mrs. Hudson, perhaps she knows him, because it is obvious by the way Lestrade and Donovan ignore him that they either don’t realize he’s there -unlikely- or they don’t know him either.”  Something was nagging at Sherlock, something about the way he was standing, something about the hair color and his body language.  “I feel as if I should know who he is.”  

 

Shockingly blue eyes found his suddenly, the man’s face suddenly swiveled in his direction, as if he’s heard them speaking about it.  Which could have been possible, if he was indeed a Werewolf.  Keen hearing, bright eye color, a small line trailing from just under one of his eyes up and over the bridge of his nose, into his hairline at the other side.  It was hard to see from here even, just barely discolored, but there.  

 

Mycroft must have come to the same conclusion as he did, because in that moment both of them froze in unison.  Sherlock could feel his own heartbeat ratcheting up, his pulse jumping, heart thumping beneath his rib cage.  He’d almost bet that Mycroft’s had done the same, and with the way quite a few of the other wolves in the room turned to look at them, they had noticed too.  Sally and Greg had made their way towards the two brothers, both of their faces mirrored looks of confusion and mild alarm.  

 

“What’s wrong?”  Sally asked, voice even and level.  “Suddenly both your hearts went jackhammering away.  What’s happened?”  

 

“Do you know the fellow standing over in front of the window there, Ms. Donovan?”  Mycroft’s voice was as even and calm as his face portrayed, and Sherlock might have believed that he wasn’t as nervous about this development as he himself was, if not for the wolves mentioning their heat rates.  “The blonde one, in the oversized jumper.”  

 

Sally turned and looked at the man in question, face scrunched up slightly and nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath in.  Lestrade had, by then, turned and was doing the same thing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he did so.  

 

“He’s not got a sent...”  Lestrade said it first, but Sally’s look of confusion was only confirmation of the fact.  “And I don’t know him.”  

 

“But only Alphas can cover their scents like that, for safety and stealth purposes.  We don’t even know any Alphas to invite--”  

 

As soon as Sally’s voice cut off, the unknown man in the jumper turned fierce, blazing crimson eyes on their small group, fanged mouth open in a display.  Every wolf in the room turned towards him suddenly, drawn in by the flare of power, their own eyes blazing pinpoints of color.  Sherlock could see Lestrade and Donovan’s eyes do the same, and most of the guests began to kneel.  It was then that Sherlock realized that the Alpha -John Watson- had shown up at his home, probably followed him, or his brother, or the Betas, or even Mrs. Hudson, and had been lead into a party full of unclaimed wolves.  Lower-ranking, unclaimed wolves, ripe for the Pack Bond.  

 

“Mycroft, get them out of here!”  Sherlock shouted, leaping forwards as he shoved a crouching pair of Sally and Lestrade out of the way, hoping to break of their eye contact with Watson.  “And get your men up here immediately!”  

 

“Already made the call, Sherlock.”  His brother was efficient, at least that could be said.  Sherlock grimaced.  “They’ll be with us in a moment.”  

 

How had he not known that that was their missing Alpha?  He’d seen pictures of him in the files, Mycroft had too.  So then why hadn’t they realized?  

 

“Alpha Influence, Sherlock.  No one saw him come in, no one saw him standing there, no one saw him until he was ready.  Only very powerful, very controlled Alphas can do it.  Sherlock, we need to leave.”  Mycroft’s voice had dropped several octaves, but his eyes were still meeting Watson’s over his brother’s shoulder, one hand lightly on his shoulder.  “Something is not right here.  We need to leave.”  

 

“We can’t just leave them here, Mycroft!”  Sherlock whispered back furiously.  “I won’t leave them here at risk!  If he influences them, if he controls them, your men could shoot them.  Could kill them.”  

 

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, his hand tightening briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder, before all the background noise, all the growling, in the room suddenly stopped.  All the wolves were still fixated on where Watson was standing, but they had stopped filling the room with sound.  It was eerie.  

 

“I’m not here to hurt them, or to manipulate them...” Watson’s voice sounded unused, raspy, almost broken off in places.  “I’m here because I have a case for you, Mr. Holmes.  Or should I call you Dr. Holmes?  You’ve certainly earned the title.  I’ve read your work.”  

 

“How did you find it, Captain Watson?”  Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual.  “Or should I call you Dr. Watson?  Or perhaps Alpha Watson?”  

 

The Alpha laughed, the sound harsh and cracking and very, very deep.  Too deep for his  compact form, Sherlock thought, made for one that was much larger than he currently was.  

 

“You can just call me John, if you’d like.  I found your work rather fascinating, very impressive really, since you’re human.  Fantastic.”  John’s grin was more wolf than man, but it wasn’t a mad smile, or a vicious one.  It was just a wolf’s smile.  “And like I said, I have a case for you.”  

 

“And that would be, Alpha Watson?”  Watson glared, eyes narrowing as he said the title and not the name he’d implied.  “Excuse me, John.  What would you like me to do for you?”  

 

“I want you and your-” John sniffs, nose turned up as he does so, fangs bared slightly.  “You brother here, to look for my Pack.  They’re... They’re missing, Mr. Holmes, and I’d rather like them back.”  

 

Sherlock hesitated.  Surely he had to know that they were dead, killed and lost to the deserts of Afghanistan?  He had to know, what with the Pack Bond being broken, silent, desolate.  He had to know.

 

“John, I need to inform you that you were the only survivor of your Pack.  You’re the only one that came back from Afghanistan.  I cannot find your Pack for you.”

 

“No!”  John roared, facial features shifting as he did, the bones in his face cracking as his jaw elongated enough for his fangs to fit comfortably.  Fur had started to spread out and around the side of his face, down his jaw, across his forehead.  “No, they are still alive!  I can feel it...”  

 

“No, no John.  They’re not.”  Sherlock said gently, hands reached out in a placating manner.  “They’re gone.”  

 

This time, John’s roar was very, very far from human.  

 

And he was shifting... In the middle of his flat.  

 

“Run!  Run!”  He shouted, whirling and grabbing for Mycroft and Donovan, who along with Lestrade, had snapped out of their daze.  The other wolves were still standing stock still around the shifting Alpha.  “Get out of here!”  

 

They crashed down the stairs in unison, the sound of Sally and Greg attempting to shift mid-run, bones breaking and reforming as they feet pounded the wood of the apartment staircase beneath their feet.  Sherlock and Mycroft were racing down in front of them, trying to get out, and by the time they’d reached the ground level landing, two large wolves -one an overall greying silver, the other a semi-dark brown with frosted tips at the ears- were right behind them.  

 

Upon getting outside and into the cordoned off street, the two wolves rounded on the flat doorway, fur bristling and hackles raised as they growled deep in their throats.  The few seconds it too Alpha Watson to reach the street behind them was filled with harsh silence, quickly filled with the loud sound of thundering paws, the splintering of wood, and the grating of sharp claws scraping against surfaces nor made to withstand the full power of a transformed Alpha Werewolf.  John bust through the front door with enough power to take the door off its hinges and bust out the small window atop its frame, the wood showering the two much smaller wolves still crouched and growling in front of the Speedy’s Cafe.  The Alpha was just as huge and hulking as Sherlock remembered, the tanned fur tipped dark, the thin scar turned into a jagged mess that crossed his face suddenly just bellow his eyes.  His eyes were the deep crimson they had been up in his flat, and before that, in the laboratory.  

 

But they didn’t appear to be crazy... or even a little bit unstable.  

 

What in the world was going on here?  


End file.
